Bravery and Sweet Cowardice

1.

There is a chill-

a window, cracked to the storm;

water falling, slanted with the rain

the world beneath a gentle waterfall.

Thunderclaps in the distance.

For a moment there is only the sound-

water and its fate;

then a wimper-

somewhere within the house

down the stairs

and in the warm, dank, darkness

the little voice cries softly.

Thunder shakes the house, closer now.

The gentle waterfall begins to intensify

ripping the paint from walls and loosening shingles-

Flowers are drowning in their beds.

A great light surrounds

white and pure, only a moment-

but the sensation lasts and lasts.

In the light, the tear-stained face-

found,

no longer sad

acknowledged then held close.

The last thunder crackles

no tears.

Warm arms, and steady eyes

staring off into the storm.

The window is wide open now-

the chill is welcome.

2.

Words tattooed on a speechless heart

declaring that one day

this being will speak without fear

again.

Every night, the same blue twilight

trying to find bearings

by moonlit highlight and starry outline

learning how to discern shadows

from the silhouettes, reality

from false hope

Hour by hour hoping for relaxation;

an empty mind

and an unclenched soul-

only sweat and clammy skin haunts

as the light of what is tomorrow

comes too soon,

burning yesterdays eyes.

Sitting in soiled sheets,

feeling sickness take grip.

Moments of inspiration-

flicking the nightstand light on,

hope manifests itself in the way of

barely discernible scribbling in worn,

coffee-stained journal pages;

the lamp flicks off again but there it is-

the dawn, full and immovable

what hope is there for the speechless heart

when every night, creativity is dashed on

dawn's shimmering shore?

Curtains are drawn and the being shuffles

about the dimly lit apartment

once craving the daylight to observe the world anew,

now hiding within cool walls scratched by the fingernails

of a 'common' consciousness,

fighting for normalcy-

singularity

then murdered by sweet eccentricity.

Pale and broken,

it waits beneath the bed,

amongst the mildew of forgotten laundry,

waiting for the night

and another try.

Words will come.